Teetering, Teetering
by i m a g i n e dream b e
Summary: Before Sherlock can leave to meet Moriarty, he must attempt to keep John out of harm's way. Written before Reichenbach aired. Johnlock, spoilers for all episodes leading up to the finale. There is fluff. Please review.


A/N: Okay, so this was based off of an Omegle conversation I had yesterday. I changed around some of the sentences to fit, and obviously the geography doesn't match up properly, but it's a story, so.

This was obviously written prior to the episode, which I'm actually going to go watch as soon as I finish posting this.

Well then. You can PM me for my tumblr URL if you want.

Disclaimer and all that.

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"What's happening this Sunday, Sherlock?"

He froze, his blue eyes bugging out to the barest degree, fingers twitching once, curling up into fists that soon loosened and came to hang by his sides as his stance forcibly relaxed.

All in half a second, but John saw everything.

"Nothing, John." Bored. Casual. That was the best way to go about it, of course. The best way to pretend the tantalizing text had never come despite his unpaid bills, that the signature was nothing, meant nothing to him. That he hadn't gotten a _text_ from _Moriarty._

"_Fancy a picnic?"_ it had said. _"Reichenbach falls is so beautiful this time of year. I'd rather go out than stay in, you see. Sick of all the soldiers. I might do something we'd regret." _And all of his subtle inquiries were met with one last text. _"Sunday, 1pm. And ditch the boyfriend, I do so hate being the third wheel."_

"Sherlock—"

"So sorry, John." He swallowed once. This was bad. His throat was closing up. The tears gathering in his eyes were making up for the lack of saliva in his mouth. He swallowed again and blinked hard at John's questioning look. Casual, casual, casual. Forever playing off his feelings, never succumbing, because that was for weaker mortals. That was too human. "For the milk, of course." He continued on in as dull a voice as possible. "I had a disagreement with it, you see. I couldn't fit the head back into the fridge, you know, because you keep insisting on buying the biggest ones for some ridiculous reason—"

John took the bait, his frown furrowing deeper in irritation. "I buy them because they're _economic_—"

"Not for fridge space—!"

"_Sherlock_."

Pause.

"Stop. Something is happening. I know it." And again, the overwhelming and stifling urge to clear his throat, and clear it again and again until it was raw because something seemed to creeping up it— and while Sherlock was fairly certain of its improbability, he couldn't help but feel it was his heart scaling the walls of his esophagus. Or his stomach, possibly.

The mental image that accompanied this thought was amusing enough to steady his voice, but not his hands. "Nothing is happening. I tell you everything, John. Well—" he amended his statement at John's incredulous expression. "Everything of importance."

Oh, and here were John's soft eyes— the eyes he brought out when he was wheedling for information, and on some strange occasions, for no particular reason at all. On random days, after a case, as they reclined on their armchairs, watching television and eating Chinese food, or in a car, or even when Irene "died."

Silly John, believing they were necessary. He had spoken so timidly, the nearly undetectable quiver in his voice loud as a gunshot to Sherlock. And his bafflement had been real in that situation— because while he had predicted John's news (and also prevented it, he thought with some mild pride), he had not anticipated John's careful tone. He had not anticipated John's deduction of his feelings concerning Ms. Adler.

Silly John. Not realizing that Sherlock had found a similar mind in Irene Adler, but that such similarity was really so dull. Not realizing that Sherlock had discovered in John a counterpart, a perfect balance to his madness.

Silly.

He was begging, now, silently, because his words had less effect. Words were easily negated, easily pushed away. And this was a message he needed to get across clearly. _Stay away, John_, he communicated silently. _Pretend to believe me and please forgive me._ And then, in that tiny corner of his mind, just barely a whisper: _Please don't leave me._

Please leave.

Don't leave.

Stay away.

Never wander.

You should never have come here.

I'm so glad I met you.

But it was no use. That soft expression was back on John's face. What was he thinking? He looked exasperated again, but only barely. What was that expression? What did it _mean?_

How humiliating. Unable to decipher his own flat mate's thoughts. How… depressing.

"There, you're doing it again, aren't you?" John said softly, his tone resigned as he rolled his eyes to the ceiling and then the corners of the room. Boredom? No. Exasperation? Exasperation. His hands had flown up slightly, not enough to be truly angry— just mildly irritated. Then again, he was holding back information. John had every right.

Sunday, 1pm.

How many hours until his probable demise? For it would probably be his demise. In fact, it was all but certain.

"Doing what?" he replied, only allowing slight confusion to color his words, to paint his face.

"Speaking with your eyes," John waved his hand around vaguely. So he didn't know the exact terminology for the phrase he had just uttered. Nor did Sherlock, really. Eye-speak? Was there a word? "You think you hint with your eyes, and that I understand, but…" he trailed off.

"But…?" Sherlock echoed, brow furrowed in confusion. Never mind appearances. What on earth was John on about?

"I just…get lost in them." John whispered, almost as if he wanted the words out without alerting Sherlock to their presence. Again underestimating Sherlock's senses. He breathed out a self-deprecating laugh, and Sherlock's mouth twitched in response, brain whirring as he tried to make sense of that. John raised his voice, evidently reaching his point. "And then I don't understand anything."

Lost in your eyes.

_Lost in your eyes._

Sherlock's eyes.

Lost…

They widened. "John…" he trailed off uncomfortably, his outside reeling with shock, his inside overjoyed as he tried to mesh the two feelings into one. "I had no…"

I had no _idea._

John's sexuality, yes, had been evident to him. He had been aware that John was neither here nor there, content to sample from all platters until he came across a personality who fit his. It was really far more intelligent than others. And John had known about _his_ homosexuality the day they met.

The sexuality was not the issue.

The feelings were.

I had _no idea._

Anger overtook him. "How did I not notice this?" he paced back and forth in annoyance. Why had it taken him so long? Why hadn't he _realized_? "I'm a consulting detective. A _consulting detective,_ John. My life _is_ putting facts together, and I can't even…"

He took a deep breath and leaned against the armchair's arm in shock, eyes focused on a spot somewhere over John's head. "Moriarty… and Molly, and you… I just… John, I…" He hated this. He hated this so much. Not knowing was _hateful._ Feeling lost was _hateful_. His intellect had failed him, his observational skills had failed him.

This was all so new.

"Sherlock…" John hesitantly placed his hand on Sherlock's arm. When Sherlock did not recoil, he gripped it more firmly. "Those people are insignificant. Now I… I don't say that to be _rude_, but… you are just so much more." Sherlock looked up desperately, his blue eyes swimming with confusion and fear. Because it was frightening, being so powerless. John's eyes widened, and took a breath as if his heart ached, pulling his… Sherlock up and continued bravely. "Even the things I should despise— like you playing violin at three in the bloody morning… I can't help it."

Sherlock shook his head slowly. _Don't say it. Don't say it, please don't say it. _

_It'll make this all so much more difficult._

_It's already so difficult._

_I don't want to go._

"I just adore everything you do," John finished, and Sherlock sagged slightly in resignation. He couldn't, now. It would take all he had in him to do this, to finish this battle with Moriarty once and for all. Not one more word from John, if he could help it. He wouldn't be responsible for his actions if there was even one more.

"John, I—" he responded urgently, desperately, but the words were nowhere. There were no words, they were all hiding, and he was clutching at empty air. "—you have to know that I—" _Where were the words?_ "As much as I can, I reciprocate."

Too much effort for such a real sentiment.

But John wasn't listening. John wasn't done, apparently. "I know you think, "Who would ever love a sociopath?"."

Sherlock wasn't listening either. It was a perfect situation, both of them sharing feelings and neither of them bothering to care. Neither of them with the willpower to care. Sherlock firmly ignored the sentiment (_love_) that John had thrown out so casually, locked away the tidal wave into his Mind Palace, for inspection upon a later date.

"_But_ there are events to come into play soon." Sherlock finished, and John paused. "I just can't…"

"Events?"

Sherlock froze again.

Twice in one conversation, that was new.

A slip in words, too. He was losing his touch.

"N—no, forget it." Sherlock stuttered mildly, admonishing himself and getting back on track. "I'm…ah, in shock."

John chuckled softly. "There's no blanket, Sherlock. You're not in shock."

Sherlock's mind was absolutely blown. There were too many variables, too many things he cared about, and all of them were being addressed at the same time, _right now_. John, Moriarty, his intellect. The three most important things, all handled in one conversation. And he had no idea (god, what _terrible _words) what the right answer was. Or if there even was a right answer. Shock. Fear. Anger. All flooding through his system.

He had never been so illogical in his _life_.

"John, how can you think I am _not_ in shock? With the events, and Moriarty—" (he cursed inwardly, but trudged on, hoping John would miss his slip-up) "—and not knowing, and then _this,_ and god, John, I just can't seem to _understand_." His voice softened, trembling slightly near the end.

"I know maybe now isn't the right time, but… with everything that has been happening, I worry that now is the only time we'll have."

"I'm not _normal_, John." He dropped it on the table like a bombshell, rationally, using cool logic to fan the flames. _Run, John. Leave before I change my mind, before I'm selfish and before I sacrifice the city, and maybe even you._ "I can't give you what you want—"

"I don't want you to be normal!" Unexpected. John was pacing the room now, clearly truly angry. His expression was agitated, his limp was completely gone. His exasperation had shot up. No longer a mild irritation, then. "I don't want some uppity person to hold my hand and call me sweetie. Can't you see that?"

No. He couldn't. He couldn't, and he shouldn't, and he wouldn't. John was worth more than a few months and then death. John was a whole life, dedicated to helping strangers and making friends and being in love. John was perfect. He did not need Sherlock to blemish that with his crazy schemes and archenemies.

"I just want you. Right here. Right now. It's not a lot to ask."

If only. But no, John wanted the whole deal. Relationship, eternity, all of it. And who knew, maybe if Moriarty had never entered the picture, they would have continued their confusing path down the friend/romantic partner road. But this was a moment of action, a fork in the road. Sherlock did not want to take action.

Sherlock could not take action.

It had to be John's decision, he realized. John had to actively decide to stay away from Sherlock.

But he was teetering. He no longer could push the doctor away with cruel words and confusion. He had to appeal to his instinct of survival. Scare him away.

"Do you remember the poolside with Moriarty?" He pushed the full force of his eyes onto John, whose breath caught as his expression took on a mildly dazed quality. Good.

"Of… of course I do."

"Do you remember when he told me…" He cleared his throat. Not this again. "He told me he'd burn the heart out of me."

"And you said you didn't have one for him to burn."

"And he said that he knew that wasn't true. That we both knew." _Understand. Please, please understand. Think literally._

"But…"

"You were wearing a bomb John." John's face scrunched up further in confusion. "_You_ were _wearing_ _bomb_."

_Burn._

John's eyes widened, his mouth falling open, but Sherlock interrupted before he could get a word in. "I can't… I can't deal with that. The thought of something ever happening to you…" He paused for the correct word. "…is painful."

John's mouth shut into a tight line. _At last. At last he will leave. At last we'll part ways, and this will be the end. At last._

"Can't you ever just _do_ something?"

Sherlock sat in stunned silence. Rarely had John ever shouted at him. Only once, when he was under the delusion that he was a hero. Sherlock was not a hero. Had he been one, this conversation would have ended hours ago (had it truly been an hour?) with John safely away.

"Don't you ever just want to _do_ something instead of sitting around and waiting for the worst?" He stopped, his voice growing soft again. Sherlock idly wondered if Mrs. Hudson was very thoroughly alarmed at the shifts in pitch and volume in the room above hers. Probably not, he thought. She had seen this coming since day one, as well. Everyone had, except for Sherlock. "Don't you get tired of it, Sherlock?"

He was coming nearer and nearer. He was only a foot away. Less than a foot. Invading Sherlock's personal space.

He _liked_ it.

"Maybe I'm not perfect, but… I'm not going to stand here and wait for you forever. If I don't do something, I'm going to explode."

Still teetering on the edge. Leaning, leaning. Leaning further as he took John's calloused hands and leaned his forehead against John's, rubbing softly as desperation colored his voice, untainted and vivid.

"What will I do, John?" His voice sounded pathetically small, and John's eyes rounded further, gripping Sherlock's hand in turn. "What will I do if something happens to you? I'm too deep in. I don't think I could ever recover. Ever."

Teetering, teetering.

Falling, as John's lips rose to meet his, lightly pressing against them and speaking, vibrations passing through his into Sherlock's. The heady feeling increasing exponentially.

"I won't leave," his voice was soft again, reassuring. "Nothing will happen. We're safe, you and I." He swung Sherlock's hands slightly in his, playful. "When we're together…" Sherlock shut his eyes as John's lips pressed firmly against his and pulled away. "We're unstoppable."

Fallen.

"I…I can't get the words out, John. Not yet. But they're there. They're always there. Every look. Every touch."

"That's all I need to know," John replied softly, and Sherlock could not resist pressing their lips together again, marveling as each push of his yielded more of John's, as they exchanged heat particles, reached equilibrium together. John deepened the kiss with a groan, gripping his hair, and the room was spinning, but oxygen was so tedious, so _boring_—

_Ding dong._

Sherlock only stiffened for an instant— they had half an hour until one, a half hour that he would spend ravishing this man and devising a plan to make them both safely disappear forever.

_Ding dong._

"Fu— Sherlock, there's somebody at the…"

"I don't care," he whispered, yanking John to an armchair and softly pulling him into his arms.

"_Boys! There's someone at the door!"_

John pulled away, breathing hard, eyes bright and face flushed as he smiled gently. "Damn it, Mrs. Hudson."

"_Boys! Oh for god's sakes. Wrapped up in their own little world, they are."_

Sherlock chuckled, and John glanced at him seriously. "I like the ring of that. Our own little world."

He couldn't stop smiling. It was absolutely ridiculous. "Good." Like an addict, he gripped John's hair and pulled him back, sampling the sweetness of his lips. John pulled away, pecking him one last time before heading to the door.

"Hey—!" Sherlock frowned.

"Sarah!" John exclaimed in utter surprise. "Um, er… It's so good to see you! Um… here, let me show you to Mrs. Hudson's sitting room…"

_Sarah._

And suddenly he was back, at the cliff. He had fallen off, teetered until he had fallen, but there, in front of him— a ladder.

His coat. John's gun. Hat. Phone.

All that he needed.

Grabbing a pen and paper, he scrawled out a quick note, creeping down the hallway and dashing out the door to hail a cab.

_Reichenbach. Don't follow me._

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End file.
